


A Poem Where Nothing Hurts

by exyjunkies



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Have mercy on my soul, M/M, Slow Burn, but this might become very long, i love these boys so much, idk where this is going, sorry if this wasn't proofread well enough lol, this is my first foxhole fanfic ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exyjunkies/pseuds/exyjunkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: In this universe, poetry is a prominent artform — poetry slams were done worldwide, and open mics were held in almost every establishment possible. Neil gets an offer to join The Foxhole Society, a group of poets famous for their craft. Here, he explores the world of poetry, the stories behind each poem, and discovers more than he had ever dreamed of doing so.</p><p>Slow burn Andreil. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unfinished Stories

**Author's Note:**

> All credit goes to the lovely Nora Sakavic. Nora, I love you a lot, thanks for the madness. I don’t write fanfiction often, but there isn’t enough fanfiction to go around for these characters, so my hand was forced.

The night was young, and the stars, Neil thoughtfully decided, were behind schedule. More than anything else though, he looked forward to seeing the moon. The number of times he's made metaphors out of the galaxies was too many to count. Growing up, he felt as if going into space was the one thing he wanted to do before he died. Of course, he had his mother to thank for kicking that idea out of his range of possibilities and keeping him grounded. Ever since he and his mother hightailed it out of his father’s place, Neil knew he had a target painted on his back. Every year leading up to this moment had always been about staying alive and staying out of trouble. Now, sitting in this car, Neil felt that he could reach higher than his mother ever thought he could.

As he looked out the window, he mentally memorized the route they were taking — an old yet unshakable habit from his days as a runaway. _Two rights, a left, and then straight_. The cold air from the AC was hitting Neil’s face a little too sharply, so he quickly reached out to redirect it. He glanced at the car’s digital clock to assess how slow the time was going. Somehow, it felt like several lifetimes before the neon green 6:51 became 6:52.

Nicky was driving, and he wasn’t used to the glass-like silence that created an unfamiliar kind of awkward. The slow song on the radio wasn’t his type either. Why he was tasked for taking care of the new recruits, he had no clue. It was only common sense, he supposed; among them, he was the most sociable, if not the most equipped to deal with social situations. Nicky cleared his throat as he searched for the right words. “I’m so excited for you to meet everyone! They’ve got our usual place. Maybe you can even perform a piece of yours.”

Neil faced Nicky and shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m up for it.”

“Oh, come on! There must be a reason why Wymack had you join us this fast. I know not everybody’s a performer—and everybody I know has gotten a case of the nervous jitters—but your eyes say you’ve got stories to tell.”

Neil silently looked down at his hands, not knowing what to reply. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have thought of the possibility that he’d be part of a group of prestigious poets. A few days ago, he was laying low, choosing to heed his dead mother’s words as he wrote poems under each different roof he chose. All his possessions fit in a black duffel bag, and he had enough money to get around. Aside from his clothes and the red binder his mother had left him, he owned a black pen and a small leather-bound notebook, which contained all of his pieces. All his secrets, his thoughts, his hidden desires were all held still in the cream pages of his notebook. Neil both feared and hoped that each one would, someday, come to life.

He was writing in a breakfast diner one late morning—a poem about one of the places he visited with his mother—when a man passed by and looked down at him.

“Whatcha writing there, kid?” He tried sneaking a look at the pages.

“None of your business, old man,” Neil had sharply said back. Instead of walking away at the rude reply, the man had chosen to snatch the notebook out of his hands, and finished reading an entire page before Neil could wrestle it back from him. “You’ve got some real talent there… Neil, was it? You ever think about joining a group?”

Neil was confused, as much as he was pissed, at this stranger’s out-of-bounds stunt. “I don’t need a group to write.”

“You see, the owner of this diner is a close friend of mine, and he told me he sees you coming here to write everyday, 11:35 AM, on the dot. He called me as a favor, to see if you could join the Foxes.”

Neil was practically gaping at him, unable to speak. For a second, he stared at the man before him, eyes full of recognition. The Foxhole Society was a group of poets well-known around these parts, partially for their craft, partially for their recruitment methods. This man—which he now knew was David Wymack, the Foxes’ director and coach—got people from broken homes, ruined families, backgrounds too complicated to trace, and gave them a second chance. Whenever possible, Neil watched them on the television when a poetry slam came on. He never once hoped to be part of such a group, but he didn’t outright reject the possibility either. He wrote for himself more than anybody else, but the idea of an audience empathizing with his pain, of understanding his experiences wasn't so bad. Their words were beautifully strung together, and were enough to make Neil forget that he lived a life always on the brink of danger; their poems took him somewhere else, far away, away from _just here_.

Wymack regarded the boy in front of him with narrowed eyes. “So you _do_ know about us. Is there any reason why you wouldn’t want to join? Any family we should contact?”

Neil looked down at his notebook. “No. I just… I don’t think I’m any good to be part of your group. You’ve got the wrong idea.” He didn’t feel like telling him how his mother died two years ago.

Wymack raised an eyebrow. As if mulling over Neil’s words, he took a moment before replying, “None of the people I take in are ever “good enough”. That’s just how I like ‘em.”

Before Neil could hear his mother’s disapproval whisper to him like it always did, he shot Wymack a careful look and said, “Fine. What’s in it for me?”

Wymack had shrugged and replied, “Better digs than anything you’ve got at the moment.”

And just like that, he was a member of The Foxhole Society. _Sorry, mom._

The car slowed to a stop as the stoplight declared red. Nicky studied Neil carefully. He knew he hit a nerve somewhere when he mentioned performing, so he cautiously pressed on.

"Have you ever performed at an open mic before?”

Neil huffed a half-hearted laugh. “No. I haven’t even _been_ to an open mic before. I just wrote poems whenever I got the chance.”

Nicky widened his eyes. “Did you ever perform for your mom, at least?”

Neil swallowed. Wymack promised there would be no invasive questions like this from the Foxes. Then again, he was used to it — he grew up on promises broken not long after they were made.

His mother never once thought of asking Neil to read or perform a poem of his. She was always on the phone with one of her contacts, or she was always looking for a new place to stay. Neil didn’t think much of it; he knew she was only trying to keep them safe. 

“No good will ever come out of all that writing. Stick with me, Abram, and you’ll survive.” His mother’s words rang in his ears each time he put a period to his sentences. She said this with mostly concern for his well-being; they were constantly on the run from Neil’s father, whose reputation as The Butcher of Baltimore was dangerous and feared. The Butcher had men everywhere, and would recognize Neil and his mother at first glance. Neil knew his mother gave up a normal life for the both of them by stealing from his father and escaping the first chance she got. But no matter what she said, he just couldn’t find it in himself to give up writing. _Let everybody else give it up for me._

Turning towards the window again, he said quietly, “Not even once. She never cultivated a taste for the performing arts.”

Nicky took that as a sign to push aside the topic for a later date, and said, “We’re here. Let’s go.”

Eden’s Twilight was a coffee house just fifteen minutes away from Fox Tower. The design was modern, and it was built larger than the average coffee house due to the audiences that gathered for the nightly open mics. It was also an illustrious venue for poetry slams. Tables held paper and coloring pencils for the more creative customers, and were complimented with plush red couches and armchairs, and wooden stools were brought out whenever extra seats were needed. Jazz music played through overhead black speakers when there wasn’t a performer, and lights hung high and softly illuminated the place. To the left was a bar stocked with all kinds of alcohol possible, as well as baskets of coffee grounds and packets of samples. To the right were booths, each one beside a window. At the far front was a stage with a mic stand.

Nicky had picked Neil up from Wymack’s apartment, with the repeated reassurance of, “Yes, Coach, we won’t get him into any trouble.” Sensing Neil’s hesitation, Wymack had told Neil to try and enjoy the night.

Neil felt like the night was going to be longer than he was used to.

Nicky spotted the group with ease, and put his hand on Neil’s shoulder as they both made their way to them. 

“Hey guys! This is Neil. Neil, this is… almost everybody.” He pointed out each person and assigned names to faces. The Foxes had taken up two couches and two armchairs placed around one table, which was laden with coffee mugs and plates of pastries. Dan, Matt, and Allison took up one couch, and Kevin was alone on the couch opposite. Nicky sat beside Kevin, and Neil opted for a singular armchair.

“Andrew is that guy over there dressed in all black,” Here, Dan thumb-pointed at a blond boy by the bar, silently nursing his drink, “and Aaron—his twin— is going here a little bit later with his girlfriend, Katelyn,” Dan confirmed, with a customary roll of the eyes.

“I wish you could meet my boyfriend Erik,” Nicky whined, “but he’s all the way in Germany.”

“That’s cool,” Neil said in German, the only verbal contribution he was willing to make right now. At this, Kevin looked up from his phone and regarded Neil with eyes that said, _You just got a little more interesting._ Matt and Dan looked at each other in confusion, and Allison sighed in annoyance at not being able to understand. 

“I’d introduce you to Andrew, but he doesn’t... take kindly to strangers,” Kevin phrased in German as well. Nicky stifled a giggle, stood up, and said, “I’ll do it. Come on, Neil, let’s get you a drink.”

The bar was barely crowded, save for a few other people at the far end. It was a Thursday night, so Neil didn’t have to wonder why. The bartender was regarding Andrew with a knowing smirk, and Andrew was glad to glare back in irritation.

Nicky spoke up as they sat down, and Neil ended up being a seat away from Andrew. “Roland, one margarita for me, and one—”

“I don’t drink,” Neil cut in, before anything else. Roland cocked his head to one side amusement, as if he found Neil cute, and said, “One soda, coming right up.”

Andrew acknowledged the bar’s new arrivals with a heavy stare. Neil looked back at Andrew, drinking in his features. Blond hair that didn’t seem to be kept tidy, a sharp jaw, hunched shoulders. Strong and steady arms. Dark eyes which held more meaning than probably intended. “Hi, I’m Neil.”

“Hm.” Andrew looked away, disinterested. Nicky filed away the exchange as something that went _surprisingly well_  — he half-expected Andrew to tell Neil to shut up and go away. He made a mental note to instigate a new bet with the gang as soon as possible.

“I thought coffee houses didn’t serve alcohol,” Neil said thoughtfully, looking at Andrew’s drink, which he recognized as whisky.

Roland grinned. “I’m the proud owner of one of the more liberal coffee houses in the state. As performances became more and more frequent here, I decided that people should be allowed to get drunk to whatever poem or song was being done up on that stage. Nobody around here’s complaining about some booze, anyway. Besides, without the Foxes to keep me in business, this shop would be closed down for good.” He slapped Nicky’s shoulder before walking away, entertaining another customer.

Nicky was smiling. “That Roland’s got a good heart. His coffee house would never flop, with or without us, and he knows it.” He looked at Andrew, then at Neil. “You good here, or…?”

“Yeah, you can leave me here. Thanks, man.” Neil said, switching back to German, as he drank more of his soda. He turned to face Andrew, who was now scrolling through his phone.

 _You’re a poem waiting to be written_ , Neil’s mind whispered. Looking at Andrew, all he saw was question marks. He could only imagine what was under those armbands of his. There were metaphors just _begging_ to be written about the apparent tension in his shoulders. This feeling was unfamiliar territory  _—_ he’s never felt like writing about anyone other than his mother or father, and _he just met this guy._

Andrew noticed Neil looking at him again, and he let a trademark frown crease his forehead. He let a flash of annoyance show as he remarked pointedly, “Staring.”

“Sorry,” Neil looked back to his drink quickly, his mind racing with how bad an idea this all was. He could hear his mother chastising him from wherever she was now. He was taught all his life that the number one rule to survival is to not trust anybody, and here he was, breaking it a million times over. To drown it out, he blurted out, “What are the armbands for?”

“None of your business,” Andrew stated, matter-of-factly, and before Neil could say any more, Andrew went back to English as he put a hand in his face. “Shut up.”

An announcer’s voice was heard from the speakers, and Neil turned around to face the stage. The coffee house was filled with a lot of people he didn’t recognize, save for the Foxes, and this made him uneasy. He inwardly pushed down his fear to listen.

“Every night is Open Mic Night here at Eden’s Twilight, and lucky for all of us, someone signed up! We don’t have to force anyone to go first tonight,” At this, a few people laughed lightly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Fox poet going first tonight — let’s hear it for Renee Walker!"

The Foxes whooped and cheered; the audience whistled and snapped their fingers; Andrew gave a few claps of his own. Neil was starstruck. He’s only ever seen Renee perform once; he knew, from public knowledge, that she didn’t like performing as much as the others did. Either that or she only performed when she felt like it. Renee gracefully made her way to the mic stand, and tapped the mic before greeting the crowd.

“Good evening. I hope you’re all having a lovely night, or else you might die of boredom in the next four minutes,” Renee’s soft voice, over the mic, carried a power of its own, and the audience’s positive reaction urged her on. “I know I’m not on stage that often, but Allison promised me free mani-pedis for the next five months if I performed at least twice a week.” Neil looked over at Allison, who was shrugging as Dan nudged her disbelievingly. “This one’s a little sad, I think, so I apologize if I set the mood wrong for the rest of the night.” A pause. “This is just a little something I wrote about the pining experience, and how it gets worse the longer a person is away from you.”

An enthusiastic, “Yeah!” from someone in the back started up a good-natured chorus of snapping and clapping, which quickly died down so that Renee could begin.

“ _One_. The thought of home being four walls and a roof escaped my sense of logic the moment I met you. You were a stable hand to hold, and I say this because all my life, nothing’s ever been as steady. We held each other up like the earth beneath us was made to swallow.

 _Two_. You were far away, but you were still here. _With me_. In the cracks of my chest, I always seem to find you, piecing what’s broken back together. Nothing feels hollow anymore. People ask why I’m smiling, and I keep you a beautiful secret; no one was going to take you away from me.

 _Three_. You are gone more often than you are here, and the emptiness comes back to haunt me. I’m starting to think it never really left. The clouds are gray today, swallowing the sky I always looked forward to seeing. I clutch family photos as if they are life sentences. You were supposed to free me.

 _Four_. Everyone around me has somebody. There is desperation that floods me quietly, and I keep it in. I constantly wish for you back, looking at the stars hanging from the sky like they’ve made a mistake.

 _Five_. I look for you in the eyes of everyone I know, and none of them fit. It was always different when you loved them, someone said. I refuse to believe this is love, because the moment I do, it is all over.

 _Six_. You hold puzzle pieces of my being and carry it wherever you are. I never needed you to give them back to me. Instead, I find myself hoping you do not throw them away. 

 _Seven_. Come back to me. I need to see if you’ve thrown them away or not.

 _Eight_. The voices in my head are telling me you’ve not only thrown them away, but you’ve burned them into ashes of nothing. I keep convincing myself it is because you were forced into the fire.

 _Nine_. I am starting to believe in the darkness once more. It is comforting to stay in a place where I do not see anybody.

 _Ten_. Home was two eyes and a heartbeat. Looking at myself, I now understand why you wouldn’t want to come back.”

Renee took a short breath, and then said, “Thank you so much.”

The coffee house erupted in applause, with the Foxes being the loudest. A few people at the bar were banging their fists on the table. Andrew, who was behind Neil, clapped and turned back to his drink with a bored look. Neil clapped and stared at Renee as she walked off the stage and towards Allison, who was standing with her arms stretched for a hug.

“It was about Jean,” Andrew dismissively said in English, which startled Neil a little. “Typical.”

Neil didn’t need further explanation. Jean Moreau was a member of the Raven Collective, a rival poets group. He and Renee weren’t able to see each other as often because the Foxes were based in South Carolina while the Ravens were all the way in West Virginia. Neil sensed a bit of animosity in Andrew’s tone, and decided not to continue the topic.

Instead, all Neil could say was, “Wow, Imagine if someone wrote like that about me.”

Andrew flicked Neil an incredulous look, and shot back, “Who would write about you?”

Neil shrugged and took a drink of his soda. “Someone who finds me interesting enough.”

It was the truth; nothing more, nothing less. Neil knew he wasn't anything ordinary, but he wasn't gullible enough to believe he was something special either. Almost everything he knows came from his mother, and the remaining knowledge could easily be broken up into the essentials of living a life away from his dangerous father. Minus the consideration Wymack gave him a few days ago, he was nobody to almost everybody in this coffee house. And _God_ , was he itching to become his own person. Maybe now, he'll finally develop a personality without the fear for his life holding him back.

Andrew raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Would that person be easy to find?” 

“I’ve kept your attention for this long, haven’t I?” This smart comment got Neil rewarded with a meaningful glare from the blond boy.

“Imagine that. I just met you ten minutes ago, and I already hate you.”

A smirk. “I find that quite hard to believe.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and got off his bar stool. Just before making his way to the other Foxes, he considered Neil for a moment before saying, “90%.”

Neil turned around to ask what the _hell_ that was about, but Andrew was already walking away, and he saw him sit down beside Kevin on the couch. It didn't take long for Neil to realize that that conversation wasn't going to be the last. As insulting as Andrew was, Neil sensed there was something more to his natural hostility and rude demeanor. He knew he should be put off by such an attitude, but oddly enough, he wasn't.

He waited a few minutes before joining the other Foxes, who were already discussing the performers who were on the stage. It was a guitarist-and-singer duet, which was apparently common around these parts.

“Neil should perform soon,” Matt suggested, which earned Neil curious glances from the other Foxes.

“Maybe. If I’m up to it.” Neil said. ‘I don’t really have anything worth performing as of now, though.”

“Oh? And what is it you consider worth a performance, Neil?” Renee prompted, sipping black coffee from the mug in her hand.

Neil thought about it. In all honesty, he could say a lot of things, but this group was new, and he didn’t want them prying into his past life just yet. He could tell them the truth, which was that all he’s ever written about was his parents, and that he didn’t want to bring that fractured mess of a family up on stage with him any time soon. Maybe, if the time was right, he'd open up a little more about who he really was. But tonight, he knew all that didn't matter. A fresh start was what made this entire thing worth going for in the first place.

He settled for a half-truth, hoping they would allow it. “A piece that could give me answers.” The Foxes seemed more than content with this answer, and Nicky brought up a movie Neil had never heard of. Allison was taking a picture of the coffee table, a course of action that Kevin was describing as “ridiculous”. Dan greeted Katelyn and Aaron, who had chosen to station themselves at the bar.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neil could see Andrew staring at him, eyes boring into his skull, as if contemplating his half-truth. Neil hid his smile, and turned to gratefully accept the half-eaten donut that Matt offered.


	2. Some Just Don't Read Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Foxes do their best to have Neil fit in, Neil learns about them from his own vantage point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am seriously doubting that this is already good enough to be posted, but I just had to get this chapter out before I continue living with my life. Thank you for the mess that I am currently in, Nora.

Whenever Neil got the chance, he sat down to write in his leather-bound notebook.

Of course, living a life as a runaway didn’t exactly mean he had a lot of free time, but he made sure he put aside an hour or two to jot down at least _something_. The grounding feel of a pen in his hand and a paper underneath his fingers somehow kept the world from spinning. His notebook made Neil remember and forget, all at once. As his thoughts were written down, Neil felt like the chances of him dying became slimmer by the verse. If the time comes when the Butcher finally forces Neil into his rightful place and true identity, his notebook will always remain to carry remnants of Neil Josten; fragments of the lost boy whose soul was a timeless poem.

He didn’t write _just_ poetry either: earlier and more run-down pages would reveal he’s already tried his hand at writing fiction, essays, even articles from the minute snippets he got to watch on the news. When his mother was finished with the newspaper, he would reach for the comics section and think up his own dialogue for the characters. When Neil started writing prose and free verse, however, he saw a version of himself several worlds away from Nathaniel Wesninski and his sad reality. Call it sad or pathetic or whatever it should be called, but Neil wrote to _escape._

The latest conundrum he was in wasn’t something he could just wriggle himself out of easily. He was now part of a group of poets that was just as—if not more—problematic as he was. He isn’t lying when he says he’s watched almost all of them perform on television. Neil always thought about poetry like this: it is a being that resonates from a deeper part of the self; it is the literary embodiment of a caged animal nobody wants to see come out, made pretty with flowery metaphors and mind games. He never had any problem reaching in and drawing inspiration from his many demons, but seeing them thrive on paper gave him a certain kind of satisfaction that he could actually control the consuming darkness swelling inside of him. Neil wanted to think the same of this group; that they were here because without poetry, they’d all be a broken mess of failed self-preservation. There were more than just stories behind their eyes, and Neil yearned to understand them.

Growing up, he didn’t have anybody to understand but himself and his mother, so he supposed it was normal that he wanted to discover other people. Writing was an art, and Neil was smart enough to know that he could only write about his experiences so many times before he starts recycling the same thought processes. It wasn’t just about uncovering how each secret fuelled these people’s talent—which they so obviously had—but it was also about Neil’s empathy, which ran bone-deep and heart-heavy.

Sitting up on his bed on Friday morning, he tried his best to work his mind around what the verse he wanted to let loose was. It was comforting, at the very least, that he wanted to write about something other than the poems he usually formed. He wasn’t very accustomed to being inspired by experiences that weren’t painful. In fact, if one were to look into his notebook, they would realize that pain was all he knew. He’s penned countless verses about every one of his scars, from the hot iron mark by his shoulder and the scar before his lips to the overlapping criss-crosses on his stomach. After so many years, Neil has learned to embrace his bodily imperfections; perhaps, not entirely accept the realities that came with it, no, but what matters was that he was still alive and breathing. He wasn’t willing to bleed even more for this next poem, though.

Blinking twice, Neil tightened the grip on his pen and let himself go.

_I’ve never been comforted by the notion of drowning_

_Until life’s waters stopped reaching for my neck_

_And instead, stilled to a smooth and steady calm_

_I never once expected to exist_

Furrowing his brow as he willed more ideas to come, Neil tapped the paper with his pen impatiently. He knew writer’s block was bound to come, but he hadn’t expected himself to run dry so soon. Before his poetic desperation could get the best of him, he suddenly remembered that now, he had all the time in the world to write, and he let out a sigh.

Three knocks on the door snapped him out of the task at hand. “Come in.”

Matt swung the door open and looked up at his roommate, whose legs were already half off the top bunk in case anybody needed him to do something. Neil wasn’t anything if not efficient. “Have any plans for today?”

“Nope, not anything in particular,” Neil replied as he reached the floor. It was going to take some time getting used to the top bunk, but a bed with blankets and pillows was already levels above the concrete he was used to sleeping on. “Why?”

“Me and the other Foxes kind of just wanted to laze around all day, and we were sort of hoping you’d be down to join us.” Then, as if Neil wasn't going to agree and he needed to strengthen his case, “There’s unlimited booze and Nicky’s out buying the junk food. What do you say?”

Neil contemplated this for a quick second. These people were too trusting of him, too _caring_ , and were already comfortable enough to ask for his company. Then again, it wouldn’t hurt for Neil to quietly learn about them as they made it such a point to learn all about him.

“I don’t drink, but sure.” Neil closed his notebook, tossed it back up on his bed, and followed Matt out of the bedroom.

The pair found Dan and Allison in the living room, arguing over which one of them should take control of the remote. Renee was sitting on the couch, trying to butt in whenever she could and give some of her own input. Andrew was beside her, quietly frowning because of the unnecessary noise, but not caring enough to do anything about the argument.

“Will Kevin and Aaron be here, or will they be having their own agendas for today?” Matt inquired as he poured himself a glass of scotch and got Neil some orange juice.

“Kevin decided to go off the grid just so he could finish his latest piece. You know how he gets when he can’t finish something he’s started,” Allison informed him, then added under her breath, “Drama queen.”

“Aaron’s decided to go to a poetry slam with _just_ Katelyn,” Dan added, obviously annoyed as she was emphasizing the betrayal with _just_. “He got tickets for the both of them. She isn’t even a Fox! I mean, Katelyn makes him a better person and all, sure. I don’t hate her or anything like Andrew does,” At this, Andrew carelessly shrugged, as if to say, “What can I do, when I hate someone, I hate someone,” Dan acknowledged his point and went on. “It’s just... she wouldn’t appreciate the event as much as we would have.”

Andrew grunted his agreement with a singular, “Mhm,” and it was loud enough that Dan heard him. She stretched her hand out to Allison triumphantly and said, “Pay up, Alli! The monster acknowledged my presence.” Allison threw a crumpled twenty dollar bill at Dan’s face and made a face at Andrew as she walked out of the room. Renee was laughing into her hand and avoiding Andrew’s resulting glare in her direction.

“Shut up,” Andrew retorted as he got off the couch. He spared Neil a two-second scowl before walking off and into the bathroom.

“What did I miss?” Nicky said as he walked into the already open room, arms full of bags of snacks.

“One up for Dan.” To Neil, Matt explained, “They have this ongoing bet about who the monster listens to more. Ever since we got Andrew comfortable enough to stay with us, that pot’s been happening. These days, Dan seems to be on an unwavering winning streak.” Matt grinned proudly at his girlfriend, who rewarded him with an air-kiss.

“Wonder how long it took for Andrew to get along with all of you,” Neil remarked.

“Oh boy, you _do not_ want to hear about that mess,” Nicky replied gleefully. “Wymack got us to make peace after several... _accidents_.”

“She probably made some sort of weird agreement with the monster to go halfsies on the final pot,” Allison shouted from the other end of the hall.

“Why do you guys call him “monster”?” Neil asked as he helped Nicky with putting away half of the junk food in the kitchenette. He posed this innocent question by the exact moment Andrew had stepped out of the bathroom.

Andrew stopped by him long enough to growl, “Don’t ask stupid questions, newbie,” into his ear before making his way back to the living room. Neil shuddered but tried his best to hide it as he put the rest of the groceries into the upper half of the cabinet.

“Part of me likes to think he’s grown familiar with the nickname,” Allison said playfully as she came back with the beanbag from Andrew’s room. “Part of me is also okay with the idea that he’s an actual monster who won’t let anyone touch him.”

Renee smiled softly as she felt Andrew’s anger boiling in him: partially for Allison stealing his armchair, partially for the comment about his nickname. Renee knew Andrew would never hit a girl, but just in case, she said, “Alright you guys, let’s all just watch the poetry slam! What channel was that again, Nicky?”

“Channel 48? Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Poetry slams were televised daily on Channel 48, otherwise known as the Slam Network. If there wasn’t a live poetry slam happening, they usually showed reruns of old poetry shows and recorded open mics. Today, however, they were showing an event that was happening in Lancaster. Nicky brought over bowls of snack food and sat down on the armchair opposite Allison’s, while Dan stood up to let Matt sit in her spot before sitting down on his lap.

Neil watched all of them carefully from his armchair. Nicky was munching on some salted pretzels and avidly talking to Renee about a poet he was looking forward to seeing live. Andrew sat in the middle of the couch between Renee and Matt, still looking very annoyed by how many people there was around him, but he wasn’t about to pass up on some poetry. Allison had dumped Andrew’s bean bag in front of the couch and made herself comfortable. Andrew settled for putting both his feet up on the bean bag, one leg each by the sides of Allison’s head, intended to be an asshole response to her stealing it. Matt was getting smacked on the head after a half-meant off-handed comment about Dan’s weight.

 _I could get used to this,_ Neil thought as he bit the end of a Cheeto. There was something about each of them that made him feel at ease, and that was enough reason for him to stay a little longer and not think about the Fox Tower’s escape routes (which he had already mapped out, of course). Neil pensively scrutinized each of the Foxes, trying to piece together the little things he knew about them.

There was an unyielding sort of trust between Matt and Dan; the way they interacted was new to Neil. When they were just inside Fox Tower, Dan wore Matt’s shirts more than she wore her own clothes, and Matt never seemed to get tired of playing with Dan’s brown hair. Romantic love wasn’t a new concept to him, of course, but with the two of them, it seemed _way_ more than that.

Nicky was the one who gave Neil his three-part lesson on how to use a cell phone. He was a little pissed that Andrew got him was an outdated version, but Nicky wasn’t going to let Neil explore such an old gadget alone. As Neil learned the basics of text messaging, he saw how important keeping connections was to Nicky; Erik being all the way in Germany kept Nicky wanting daily confirmation that his boyfriend was doing okay, and Neil wasn’t at all surprised that Nicky expected the same from him.

Neil could only describe Allison as someone that came on too strong; with a personality that was equal parts bitchy and virtuous, her sarcastic comments were tinged with a fondness only she was capable of. Renee informed Neil that back then, Allison used to be a lot worse than this. He suspected that after Seth’s death, Allison wasn’t capable of saying anything fully genuine. With time, she was able to cope enough and remove a considerable percent of the surliness from her attitude.

Renee, with her weird hair and even weirder disposition, was—and will continue to remain—a mystery to Neil. There are times when Neil thinks he gets something about her, but then he dismisses the thought completely; Neil can’t understand Renee any more than Renee can understand herself. He supposes that is why she holds onto her Christian faith so strongly; in the moments she’s lost and she doesn’t have herself to believe in, she has God and prayer.

When Neil’s eyes flicked over to Andrew, a feeling he was never acquainted with before stirred in his chest. He can’t seem to answer any of his questions as he observed Andrew; if anything, he got baffled with even more questions. Neil could sense that the hurt behind Andrew’s eyes wasn’t made visible easily, and he picked up on the fact that Andrew associated vulnerability with weakness.

 _I’ll figure you out somehow,_ the voice in Neil’s mind muttered.

The announcer on the television was introducing the first poet. Her name was Diane Cruz, a 26-year-old Filipino-American woman, and she was going to perform a poem about overlapping national identities. The whole room fell silent when she began her piece. Neil found himself loudly snapping to the lines she said about not knowing who she really was, and Nicky was loudly murmuring his assent towards the end.

As Diane Cruz stalked off the stage, Allison was telling Renee about how she could be more expressive during her poems. Neil knew that Allison loved performing those women empowerment pieces of hers with a fiery feel that was purely Allison. “Hand gestures allow your poem to have a bigger reach, you know.”

“Yeah, Renee, you should definitely have more stage presence.” Dan agreed, reaching for the bowl of salted pretzels.

Renee shrugged. “Maybe when the next piece calls for my hands, I’ll use my hands.”

“I loved your performance last night,” Neil offered. “It was my first time seeing you onstage, too.”

“Aw, that poem was almost nothing, Neil. But thank you for thinking so,” Renee humbly said back, living up to her strong reputation as the group’s sweetheart. Neil took note of the way Renee had said _almost_. She said it with a weight that was almost undecipherable.

Nicky covered his mouth to prevent spitting out vodka as he spluttered, “Aaron?!”

The group immediately turned their attention back to the screen and gasped. The announcer had finished introducing Aaron as the second poet. Allison was on the verge of saying, “Oh my God,” while the other Minyard’s expression as he watched his brother was positively _livid_.

“Andrew absolutely hates surprises,” Matt confirmed when Neil shot him an inquiring look.

“With every bone and every fiber in his body,” Dan agreed whole-heartedly.

The blond boy introduced himself and gave a shout-out to Katelyn, and the camera panned to a view of her waving in the audience. Neil saw Andrew’s fists tighten with disapproval at the romantic gesture, but didn’t say anything about it.

As Aaron started to perform his poem, Neil noticed a sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere. The piece was about being trapped, and how he needed a way out. He elaborated on how he felt like he was a living prison; that letting people in meant there was no way out. There were culture references and expressions in between lines that made it sound fictional, but there was no doubt that Aaron was telling a story about himself. There was no snapping or cheering for this piece; it hit too close to home for Aaron, and Neil could see that from the looks of it, it struck a few nerves in Andrew too.

It was so painfully obvious that Andrew was more than well-acquainted with Aaron’s poem. There were times that Neil caught him mouthing the words in time to Aaron’s emotional phrasing. There were instances when Aaron would pause and Andrew’s jaw would tense. There were points in Aaron’s performance where Renee would put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder to calm him down.

The last word had just left Aaron’s lips when Andrew stood up and headed for the door. No Fox tried to stop him; if anything, they were a bit relieved when Andrew chose not to hit anybody and instead limited his show of violence to slamming the door shut. Nicky swallowed nervously, but he wasn’t about to run after his cousin. Matt and Dan looked at each other, their silent back-and-forth indicating that they didn’t know what to do.

Neil felt the sudden urge to go after him. It was _that feeling_ again. The feeling rumbled deep in his being and desperately banged on the doors of his chest. Right now, he didn’t think of it as anything more than uneasiness; he saw how badly Andrew was shaken up and wanted to see if he could do anything.

His father always hated that unwavering and kind part about Neil; he’s already tried several times to beat it out of his son. Nathan thought caring meant being delicate, and there was no way _in hell_ his son was going to grow up fragile and useless. But no matter how many times he tried, Neil just couldn’t get rid of his heart of gold, and that’s probably why his mother tried so hard to keep him safe from any kind of danger. She knew Neil’s unrelenting goodness was whole enough to be broken up and shared with someone else who needed it.

In this moment, Neil stopped to reassure himself that he would do it for anybody in this room if he needed to.

 _Anybody in this room_ , he stubbornly thought to himself one more time. 

As he stood up, Allison didn’t even try to hide her concern. Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Are you sure about what you’re doing, rookie?”

“No, but being unsure is half the fun,” Neil replied, and went after Andrew.


	3. I Wouldn't Read Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil and Andrew have a heart-to-heart on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update! I won't be going back to this for a while, because I'll be busy as hell (oops). I don't know how or if I should continue with this... so please leave comments on what you think I should do!

Logically speaking, Neil shouldn’t know where Andrew ran off to. For fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t even c _are_ , but for some reason, his heart was pounding as he tried checking Andrew’s room.

Kevin, Aaron, and Nicky shared the same room with Andrew, but this fact wouldn’t be obvious at first glance by the way Kevin kept the entire room spotless. Neil understood this by coming to the conclusion that Kevin was a complete and utter control freak. He was probably the type to prefer a work environment that wasn’t so overrun by trash and messy clothes, and if he could have a say in matters such as this, he’d take hold of it by the reins.

Neil cautiously walked in and checked every place in the room, but to no avail.

“Try the roof,” a soft voice suggested from behind Neil. Renee was leaning by the doorframe, looking at Neil like she was curious about what his next course of action was going to be. “It’s just up another floor.”

“Thanks, Renee,” Neil said quickly as he walked out past her, and tried not to dwell on the small smirk that was on her face moments before he left.

As Neil slowly made his way up the stairs, a past memory came to mind. For some reason, he could never seem to forget the highlights of his fugitive days; they seemed to stand out like black, violent bruises on pale skin. He may have (temporarily) stopped running, but his past never stopped trying to catch up with him. Neil liked to think of it as poetic.

Around four years ago, he and his mother were buying food from the stalls by the road. Walking by the fruit stand, Neil’s eyes surveyed the options out in front of him. The first fruit Neil had noticed was a big, discolored lemon. It was supposedly _just_ an ordinary lemon, judging by how it was placed among the others, but what really got his attention was how rottenly overripe it was. The peel was half a year past its last passable shade of yellow; it now openly displayed an odd combination of green and sickly white. In the eyes of someone looking to buy fruit, the lemon was a failure. Nobody questioned why it was still being kept on the stand when it clearly needed to be thrown out. Neil saw it as a standout, but he also saw it as a message; it looked different from everybody else because it lived longer than those freshly picked. Among the normal lemons, it was the easiest to notice, the star of the fruit produce.

His mother saw him staring at it, and whispered, “That lemon’s placed there beside the better lemons as a standard. The sellers, they tend to compare the fresh lemons to that overripe one, and spout sweet lies the customers want to hear. That their lemons won’t turn out like that because they’re of the best quality. What nobody seems to understand is that the rotten lemon still has that permanent spotlight on him, and will be ingrained into the consumers’ minds for all eternity, all because of that one simple distinction.” She then turned his son around and knelt to meet his gaze. “Try your best to be like the other lemons, and you’ll fit in. Keep yourself among those who aren’t special, and they won’t notice you’re just another lie.”

 _Well,_ Neil thought as he opened the door to the roof. _There goes my chance of being a normal lemon._

Andrew was sitting on the roof’s ledge, legs hanging off the edge. His head was bowed low as he leaned back on his hands, smoke trailing up from the cigarette between his fingers. A black cap covered his hair. Neil weighed his chances of being thrown off the roof and decided that Andrew wouldn’t have any reason to if he didn’t give him one.

Neil walked up and stayed a few feet away from him; he knew there was still a boundary, seeing as he was new. Lines were meant to be crossed at the right time, and it looked as if it was going to take Neil quite some time before he could make it past such a thick one. It was more suspicious the longer Neil was gone, but he trusted that the other Foxes wouldn’t go after him, because he knew Renee wasn’t a gossip. Time-wise, he was safe. The sky was slowly turning gray, and while Neil didn’t exactly hate the rain, being wet seemed more of an inconvenience than anything at the moment.

“It’s about to rain,” It wasn’t what he meant his first words to be, but awkward first impressions were always a step ahead of Neil’s intellect.

Andrew didn’t move a muscle, and replied sarcastically, “Are you going to tell the clouds to stop what they’re doing?”

Neil hoped Andrew could hear him rolling his eyes. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What bothered you so much about Aaron’s poem?”

“You listened to it. Figure it out yourself.” The blond boy craned his neck at the sky and stubbed his cigarette butt before throwing it all the way down to the road. Blowing out the rest of the smoke, Andrew added, “What bothered you so much that you had to follow me up here?”

Cold wind bit at Neil’s arms, and he shivered. “I wasn’t bothered, I think,” he lied, searching for a way out of this. “Or at least that’s not the right word for it. I think I was just intrigued.”

Neil had hoped he wouldn’t see through it, but, “Don’t bother me with your good-willed “curiosity”, Josten,” Andrew snarled, turning toward him. “It’ll only annoy me. So I’m going to ask you again: _why are you up here_?”

“I’d rather lie than deflect, because at least I’m giving you something,” Neil shrugged, neatly avoiding the question. “You do it your way, I’ll do it mine. But at least the questions were honest.”

“From the way I heard it, your well-worded weather comment was the only fact that came out of your stupid mouth,” Andrew pointed out.

Neil didn’t know what to say to that, so he put his hands in his pockets and mentally prayed for the silence to be easier. He asked for this, he reminded himself. For now, patience was _just_ going to have to be one of his virtues.

After a while, Andrew looked him in the eyes and explained, “I deflect because I hate honesty,” Considering Neil with a careful eye, he added, “Lies are a lot easier to swallow than most of the truths I’ve lived through, but while they’re suspended in the air for anybody to hear, they’re just twisted versions of the truth in the end. So avoidance has always been my method.”

“Why do you hate the truth?” Neil pressed, taking a tentative step forward. He badly wanted to read into this boy’s soul, but he was going to have to do it inch by inch.

“I didn’t say I hated the truth, but I do hate the concept of honesty,” Andrew clarified sharply, sounding annoyed with Neil. “The refusal to lie automatically assumes the truth is better, that everything is black and white. Honest people are also people with one-track minds, which, in turn, make them boring. Coming across the truth has never been my strong suit,” Then, he looked down at his feet and muttered, “And most of the truths in my life are fucking ugly.”

 _Like what happened to Aaron_ , Neil mentally finished for him. _Like everything that has ever happened to me._ He didn’t know all of the details, but Aaron’s poem told him all he needed to know. There were vague mentions of “an end he didn’t want to need”. Understanding bloomed within his chest like a garden, and in the next few moments, he tried plucking out a flower.

“I’ve become lies in the form of bigger names that didn’t fit me, but had to be forced on for safety,” Neil offered. “Some days, I still question my fucking existence. My whole life, up to this point, remains one big lie, all because I’ve been running away from my father for years.” His thoughts went back to his mother’s overripe lemon life lesson. He didn’t know if his story was enough to be bought by Andrew, but he hoped it would at least get acknowledged. The distant roar of thunder only emphasized his next words. “I’m hoping the Foxes would be my chance at some form of integrity.”

Andrew looked up, as if he was momentarily stunned by Neil’s answer. There was something in his brown eyes that Neil couldn’t decipher, but by the time he noticed, Andrew’s face had already changed to a small scowl and his eyes already held a darkness that was somehow more befitting. Neil knew enough body language to sense that Andrew regretted letting something show. He walked up to Neil’s face and grabbed him by his collar. Neil was surprised by the sudden motion, and he heard his heart thumping loudly against his chest.

“If you think your redemption starts with me, you’re sorely mistaken,” Andrew said angrily into his ear, and walked away, leaving Neil the moment the first raindrop had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me prompts on [Tumblr](http://exyjunkies.tumblr.com/ask)!


End file.
